Page 151 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
I set my bag down and turn to Octavia. “Which room should I take?”
“No need to choose,” she says, waving a hand. “I already picked one for you.”
She pushes open a door to reveal a master suite, sunlight spilling over the cream curtains and a vast king sized bed.
I nod. “You really planned this.”
“Obviously.” She grins, already turning toward the hallway. “Now, do get dressed. We’re leaving shortly.”
“Leaving where?” I ask, arching a brow. “And why, exactly, are you so insufferably enthusiastic?”
“Because it’s Paris,” she says, exasperated. “We’ve an entire city to see, and I’m not wasting a second.”
“Fair enough. So what do I wear? Comfortable shoes, I assume? We’ll be walking a lot.”
She gasps. “Absolutely not. I didn’t even pack flats for you. You’re wearing heels.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “I will kill you.”
I reach for the zip on my bag, but she slaps my hand away. “No. I don’t trust you. Go and take a shower, wash your hair, do whatever you must to look…” She gives me a once over, pausing. “Better than you do now,” she finishes lamely. “I’ll choose your outfit.”
I laugh quietly but do as she says.
I take a quick shower, the hot water easing the tension from my shoulders. Wrapping a towel around my hair and another around my body, I step back into the bedroom.
Octavia is perched on the bed, typing furiously on her phone. She doesn’t notice me until I close the door, then she tosses the device aside and smiles. “Sit.”
I sit at the vanity while she gets to work on my hair. She runs a bit of oil through the strands, then blow dries it straight before combing through carefully. “We’ll do loose curls,” she decides.
When she’s done, she nods toward the bed. “All right, clothes are ready.”
I stand and look at what she’s laid out on the bed. A lingerie set, white silk, and a fitted dress in pale ivory satin.
My brows lift. “I don’t remember owning these.”
“They’re yours now,” she says. “I bought them for you. And before you start, it’s a gift.”
“Octavia…”
She gives me a pointed look. “Don’t make me remind you that your fiancé bought an entire perfume house simply so no one else could wear your scent… which, might I add, left me without one of your Christmas presents. So do let me have my moment, all right?”
I laugh. “Fine. You’re impossible.”
“I know.”
I let the towel fall and pull on the panties, the cut of the dress won’t allow for a bra, then lift it from the bed and slide it on.
The satin glides up easily, settling against my body. It draws in at the waist, following every line and curve, then eases out just enough at the hem to move when I walk.
The thin straps rest over my shoulders, the neckline dipping low. The fabric is light, almost sheer, clinging close enough to leave little to the imagination. I smooth it down over my hips and glance in the mirror.
My sister watches me from the vanity chair, one brow arched, a knowing smirk curving her lips. “You’re welcome,” she says.
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress my smile. “You’re absurd.”
“And you’re exquisite,” she counters smoothly. “Now, let me do your makeup.”
I sink back into the chair while she stands, already reaching for the brushes.
